Scarlet Letters
by GreyFox33
Summary: Be careful - the streets of Boston can be a dangerous place if one was lost. ConnorxOC
1. Prolugue

** AN: This is...this is stuff. Stuff that I had in my head for a few days and needed to be written out.**

**Yeah, look I have no idea where I'm going with the story ^^' but from all the AC3 build-up I'm just going to dive head first into shark infested waters with this one.**

**I am sorry if there are things that are historically inaccurate, just let me know and I will try to change it :3**

**If you don't like animals, female OCs (generally everyone is going to be an OC I guess because we don't know any of the other characters), romancing with assassins or multiple chapters, I suggest you just go read something else. But I would like to know if there are readers out there for mine too xD**

**This first chapter is inspired by the Jesper Kyd AC3 soundtrack, "_Aphelion"._**

**Enjoy and please review!**

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**Scarlet Letters**

_As a boy, I had been foretold of the Spirits living around us._

_Yet as War broke out, the Land was torn by injustice and blood._

_And the world I once knew became a stranger._

_A lost man is a dangerous man. An undefined man _is_ the lost man._

_And as a man that is lost and undefined in a land that needs justice, I fall._

_As I grow older, it feels like she is growing younger. Several years will pass before I understand the meaning of why They chose me._

_The meaning, which was just the beginning._

_-Ratonhnhaké:ton_

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**1**

Midnight blankets the streets of Boston during the early autumn in 1772. The moon is full and opaque in the clear night sky, casting the streets in a pasty glow. The air was crisp with the faint smell of the waters carried on the chilly breeze. It was dead of the night where the candles beside bedchambers were snuffed out and the heads were buried deeply into their pillows.

A lone guard was making his usual patrol in one of Boston's downtown avenues. His black boots tapped along the wet cobble ground as his eyes toured the dingy alleys. Having the sudden feeling that he was being watched; the guard paused his steps and lifted his eyes to rooftop beside him. The full moon perched itself on the tiles and gazed down at him. After a moment, he decided that his paranoid state was merely because he was exhausted and carried on.

An elderly, drunken man stumbled out past the pub doors and toppled over onto the back alley in front of the officer. The pub's doors swung back and forth on their hinges and the music of a jaunty violin and raucous laughter from inside spilled out into the cold air. He reeked of ale and sweat and the front of his clothes were stained with it too. The drunk man, completely out of his mind, carried on with the song inside at the top of his lungs.

The guard approached him, a gloved hand brushing up to his rifle strapped over his chest. "You there! Stop what you're doing!"

The old, drunk man sat up from where he laid sprawled on the ground. A wide, drunk grin grew on his face. "'Ello officer!" he sang merrily. He stood up on wobbly feet, and stumbled slightly until he was standing upright. He stretched both his arms out to his sides. "Care for a lil' drink?"

The guard gave the man a look of disgust. "Get back inside you scrawny bastard before you find yourself singin' in the gaol!"

The old man chuckled and eyed the guard for a moment. He took a step forward, in which he misplaced it left and found himself staggering to keep himself upright. He fell, right in front of the guard. His hand caught the guards shirt front to keep himself up right. "Y'know whats wrong with you lot?" the old man slurred, looking up at the officer with unfocused eyes. "Six years ago my son went to the gaol. My wife an' I tried to give you lot the coin to get him out but you know what y'did?"

He jabbed a long, crooked and dirty finger at the officer. "Yous already sent 'im off! To get killed in your lil' war! I never said good luck to him you sonuvabitch!" The old man trembled with tears blurring his vision. "I never got to say good bye. My wife and I never saw our son again."

The guards eyes burned with rage. "How dare you assault an officer!" He sent a hard kick to the man's chest and with an 'oomph!' the old man double overed in pain.

The old man clutched his stomach, coughing. He could feel the alcohol subsiding and the pain kicking in as his eyes watered. He looked up to the guard with wide eyes and vaguely remembered the figure behind him. His dark eyes fell to rifle in the guards hand and the fear choked him. "Now, now," he wheezed softly. "There's no need to go that far! I'm an old man, you see! Killing me won't solve anything!"

"No. Yet killing a fool will make it one less to deal with." The guard snarled.

"Please. I have a family, a wife to go home to!"

The guard chuckled. "Then you should've thought of them before you're drinking problem." He raised his rifle above his head and the old man cowered underneath him. "You should be thanking me. As I am putting you out of your misery."

The man covered his face with his arms and braced himself for the onslaught of pain. But the pain never came and the first thing that went through the man's head was that he had been killed in one blow. He opened his eyes and glanced down at his body, patting it to make sure and then slowly raised them to the officer.

The rage in the officer's eyes slowly changed with widening with surprise. His arm was still outstretched above his head with his rifle in his hand. A tip of a blade was produced from his neck and with an audible _shnnk_ noise, extracted from his flesh. Blood poured from the wound and the officer gurgled out a noise before the crimson swallowed his tongue and spilled from his mouth. The guards eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed heavily onto the ground, already dead.

The old man's eyes widened at the dead body crumpled in front of him. Crimson pooled underneath the officer's neck. The old man staggered backwards until he landed on his behind. A man dressed in strange white hooded robes stood in the officer's place, dropping his a blood stained hand to his side. The moon caught the man's nose and jaw as the rest of his face was shrouded in the shadows of his hood. The old man's heart hammered in his chest. "Y-you just-" he choked, watching in both fear and gratitude up at the stranger. "Dear God! You just – just –"

Though the old man could not see his eyes, he met the hooded man's gaze. His entire body went rigid under his stare and his words died in his throat. He swallowed dryly and the hooded man turned suddenly and began to walk away.

"W-wait!" the old man called out to the hooded man. He stumbled up, his mind sobering but not enough. "What is your name, kid? I want to thank my saviour!"

The hooded man paused in his steps and considered to answer. He cocked his head to the side slightly. "Go home to your wife," his deep voice rolled over his shoulder.

Before the old man knew it, the hooded man turned away and the Boston night swallowed him whole.


	2. Sinking In

**A/N: Good morning everyone :)**

**Thank you all for the wonderful reviews, I hope I can keep writing up to your expectations!**

**We haven't met our dashing heroine yet! But here's the chapter to get our story going.**

**And have you seen the amazing AC3 trailer yet? Oh my gosh, Connor prancing around in the field killing all those soldiers with his badassery - I seriously can't wait for October! But is it just me or does the naval gameplay remind you of Pirates of the Caribbean? (Canon! /shot)**

**I wish I owned Connor, but I do own Penelope Thomas, a doctor's daughter (but alas, she is not our fated heroine of the story ;), her introduction is in the next chapter. Enjoy!**

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**2**

_Dawn_ arrived over Boston the next day with the first rays peeking over the rooftops and across the glittering surfaces of the murky waterways. The night shrunk back, lurking as the thick shadows in thin lanes and back alleys. By the docks, the fishermen courted crates of fish and a few rats scurried along the sides of buildings. The sun warmed the air, misting the cool night away. It was quiet and pleasant for a moment as the city stirred awake.

A figure clad in white garbs and fine, antiquated weapons staggered out from the shadows. A hand tightly clutched his wounded arm, hanging by his side like a dead weight. Mouth set into a grimace and eyes hooded and unclear, the figure hissed back the pain with every unclear step. His location was set, but his direction unknown. His eyes blurred and his subconscious kicked in and out like a wild horse. He had to make it – he had to go see her. He needed help – and the bureau was too far away from where he was.

At several points down the back alley journey of two blocks, Connor felt his body slump into the wall with quick defeat. He pressed on and pushed forward at a slowing pace. His steps felt lighter and smaller, undefined and unclear of what they were doing. The cool prickling of a rain through the morning light beaded down his jaw and mixed with his sweat. He panted, eyes unfocused but with a determined mind he continued. At some point, and by some miracle, the assassin found himself at a familiar doorstep, banging on the wood and concentrating hard on standing upright.

A few moments later, the door opened, and a lovely young woman in a blue colored dress answered. Her eyes widened at the sight of the assassin before her in disbelief and shock. "Connor?" she asked, uncertain.

He replied with a groan and an unsteady sway. Panicked, the woman, who Connor had known as Penelope Thomas (an alley to the assassins), grabbed his arm and quivered under his weight as he leant over utterly spent. "Merciful Lord! What has happened to you?" she gasped, and shot under the man's uninjured arm and helped him inside her house.

The world tipped and the next thing the scent of washed linen invaded his nose. In the back of his mind a distant thought echoed that he was now lying down in one of the woman's nursing cots. The thought brought back weak relief. _He made it._

Small hands began to push his hood off his face. No – no, he _needed_ his hood on his mind protested. He raised a weak arm to stop the hands but it fell heavily back onto the mattress. Defeated just like the rest of him. Somewhere along the road of catalepsy and perception he was reminded that he was asked a question. "Templars…" he rasped, his mouth dry and lungs convulsing. "I was tailing…a spy…ambushed…poisoned."

"Heaven's divine, Connor," the girl whispered, her tone frightened. "What have you gotten yourself into?" A hand palms his sweating forehead. "You're burning up!"

He groaned, low and guttural. He was in _pain._ He felt like he was going to throw up.

Seeing his paling face, Penelope pushed Connor to his side and kicked out a wooden bucket from underneath the bed. He groaned but didn't throw up as much as he wanted to. A thick ringing filled his ears as Penelope started shouting down the hall for medical supplies and extra hands. He felt her delicate fingers grasp his large, clammy palm. Her thumbs rubbed over his knuckles in a soothing rhythm. It felt good – beyond the pain. A mother's touch that Connor missed.

He opened his unfocused eyes and saw three kneeling Penelope's weaving side to side in front of him. "You're going to be okay, Connor," they all told him. He could see the darkness behind her, tugging in his mind. "You're going to be okay, I promise."

Yet, Connor fell into the darkness, his last thoughts lingering onto why Penelope had twin sisters.

* * *

When Connor awoke for the first time in what seemed like years, he was mildly surprised that he was still alive and still in the nursing cot at the Penelope Thomas' house. His injured arm had been wrapped professionally in a bandage. His eyes were still heavy and took a while to focus in the dark room. The poison was now a dull burn in his body and a bitter taste on the back of his tongue.

A small kerosene lamp with its flickering flame on the small table beside his cot casted dancing figures amongst the walls. He watched them silently for a moment, lost in thought and selfishly enjoying the peace it brought him. At the same time he was disconcerted of his past actions. He should've been more careful, he should've known the spy was going to rat him out, he should've-

A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he immediately tensed, despite his predicament of being bedridden. A man dressed in fine dark clothes stood in the doorway. A tamed beard and moustache sprinkled with grey framed his ageing face. The assassins spared the man a cautious look. He was a well known Boston doctor, a secret ally to the assassins and ...Penelope's father. Connor relaxed and composed his gaze to the flickering shadows along his wall.

"You're awake." The doctor stated and strode into his room with a hooded glint in his eyes. "And you're alive," he added wryly. "Count yourself lucky, Connor. If you had been any other person, you would've been dead the moment the poison was in your system."

Connor's eyes fell to the doctors amused expression. He chuckled but it came out as a dry, painful rasp.

"Easy there, you're still recovering."

Connor closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed slowly. He winced at every movement and forced the words out of his mouth. "How...long?"

Peter gave Connor a serious expression. "It's barely been eight hours. Penelope told me that you were ambushed by some Templars. That doesn't sound like you."

The assassin turned to glare at the doctor and Peter chuckled and raised his hands in defence. "How are you feeling?"

"Shit," the assassin grounded out from the back of his teeth. His head was spinning and his body couldn't decide whether he was hot or cold. Even at this moment he was having some difficulty concentrating. The room was starting to spin again.

"Then you're recovering well," the doctor muttered. Long, cold fingers prodded his wound tenderly. "You'll be like this for a few days. I will send word to the other assassins that you're here."

It was when Connor could feel the bandages being removed and replaced did it register that he had no clothes on - except for his breeches. The assassin's haunted eyes flickered around the room and he felt momentarily lost. He found his array of weapons, garments and boots by the dresser and frowned.

Peter followed Connor's gaze before the assassin could look away. "Our servants had to remove your clothes and weapons for us to help you. Your body was burning up and when the fever possessed you, you started throwing yourself around. It took several of us to pin you down and strip your goddamn weapons off you before you killed anyone. That was a miracle in itself."

_Like I could've helped it,_ Connor thought bitterly as his consciousness snarled at the impending darkness of his mind.

"I don't understand why you assassins have to carry around all those bloody things on you," the doctor muttered under his breath.

"You have... to be ready...for anything," Connor panted pathetically, his head lolling to the side limply. "As an...assassin...you can't know..."

"Alright, alright," the doctor huffed, finishing his wrapping of the bandage and pinning it in place. "No need to get your breeches in a knot. Now give yourself some rest, Connor. You need it."

Peter stood up and gave the dirty cloth to an awaiting and unseen servant just outside his door. The assassin gave out a hearty breath, staring unfocused at the man by the doorway. "I'll be back in a few minutes. If you're awake then, we can see if you can drink something," the doctor replied, closing the door and sinking Connor back into the darkness.

* * *

Two days later, Connor felt his mind being tugged back to life from voices drifting down the hall, muffled, yet audible through his closed door. He kept his eyes shut and his body still even though he wanted to be up and moving. _You're too weak,_ his mind told him.

"-you seen this girl, ma'am?"

There was a pause and Penelope's voice resonated to his room. "…No. I haven't. I'm sorry, officers. What is the matter?"

"…we're distributing posters around the city. She is a runaway slave, guilty on the charges of murder in New Orleans…"

"Oh my…"

"We have leads that she's in hiding here in Boston. If you see her, do not approach her, she is dangerous and must be reported to guards immediately."

"Of course, officers. I will see what I can do."

"Keep the poster, ma'am. We're doing a run over with some families and want to spread the warning by word. Have a good day."

He heard the front door close and Penelope walking down the hall to exchange a few whispered words to her own servants. In his faded and weak state, focusing on the clipped conversation took away some strength. He can't understand what they're talking about and lost interest quickly.

During his drifting state, Connor couldn't shake off how ironic everything was.

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**And Connor finds it ironic because he's an assassin hiding in her house and she's getting told that she should report a runaway slave to the guards. So silly, so silly~**

**Apologies if Connor seems OOC - it's really hard to get someone in character when all you know about him is from a few minutes from trailers v.v'**

**Next chapter we get to meet our main girl! xD WOO WOO**


	3. Kora's Mistake

**A/N: I think this is the first time that I don't know what to say in an Author's Note before a story ahaha, so I won't blabber on too much.**

**I get my muse from music - and all things Connor.**

**Thank you for reviewing!**

**-Pizelle**

**-newyorkersteph0804**

**-Sera22**

**-CourtGoesRawR**

**-Devonshire**

**-Realms of Destiny**

**-SoccorGirl4Life30**

**-Lady Cherri**

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**3**

The rolling, dark clouds parted and the rain subsided. Thick strands of the sun fell onto the glittering rooftops. The clock tower tolled in the heart of the capital, jolting off the flock of crows nestled atop its steeple into flight.

The grounds became muddy and the cobble pathways flooded with draining puddles. Rainwater gushed down the rooftops and onto the avenues. People stayed underneath shelter, women timidly making their way. The only ones that occupied the streets were the farmers steering their carts of hay and those who dared not to be late on their travels.

Kora sucked in a shuddering breath and glanced back at the colonial house across the boulevard. Her cold hand palmed the wall of the narrow lane shrouded in shadows. A forgotten place, where the weeds grew and the eyes missed. She gazed out to the world with trepidation framed within. Her clothes and short hair were damp and bitterly fresh against her dark Latin skin.

She would be sick later on, she could tell. Her body had been trembling for quite a while now and she couldn't feel her toes in her boots. _Depressing weather, _her mind chimed. She was used to much hotter, much drier seasons. Thoughts of home and the family she left behind traveled her mind wistfully, tightening the already aching band in her chest.

There was nothing more she craved then to see the Spanish shores again. In her heart, her country called for her. It was as if a line tied from her home tugged at her being. How she wished she could go back there right now! To see her mother and little brother again and dance inside those villa walls. To laugh and love and feel safe again wrapped in her mothers arms and to play with José in the courtyard. Finger groped the brickwall. She promised to bring her father back and together their family can be whole again…

The front door opened across the road and Kora took a step deeper into the shadows. Her eyes narrowed as a dainty woman dressed in a fine blue coat and outing gown stepped out. She was chatting along with a man in black following her out, shutting the door behind them. They seemed oblivious to the fact that they were being watched. For a moment Kora wondered if it was just a rouse. She doubted it. No one ever noticed her hidden here. Bright blue eyes trailed after the couple as they walked arm and arm up the boulevard and disappeared around the bend.

She waited a moment. And then another before Kora slipped out of her hiding place and walked measuredly to the house. Her eyes darted to the occupied street around her and found that no one was watching. She slipped into the lane beside the colonial house and peeked up at its walls. They loomed over dauntingly with water spilling down off the tiled crown. She shuddered. It was as if the house knew why she was here. She swallowed thickly and blinked back down to her surroundings, dodging the puddles with a racing heart.

The yard behind the house was small but well kept and like many of the backyards in Boston, it was open and girded off by a low picket fence. Flowerpots holding coneflowers and several other herbal plants were placed along the handrail, freshly watered from the recent shower. Three small steps from the back door smoothed onto the lawn. She placed a hand atop the pointed post-

"-and Mister Thomas wanted nothing more of it!"

Suddenly the back door swung open and two servants bustled out with dirty linen baskets. Kora jerked away from the fence and plastered herself onto the inner lane wall. The screen door banged loudly against the wall beside her head sending one servant hissing at the other.

"Oh Leanne will you be more careful! You'll wake up the guest!"

Kora's brow furrowed. There was a guest in the house? Oh what fine luck she had. She cursed under her breath and edged closer to the conversation. A hand grabbed the screen door and eased it shut. The younger servant turned to the other.

"The poor man is basically on his death bed as it is. He is bed ridden, poor soul." The two servants remained quiet for a moment, heading out to the washhouse to do the laundry before the conversation before started again. Kora's eyes narrowed in contemplation.

_I can do it._

The sound of the washroom door closing triggered Kora's feet forward. She hoisted herself over the fence. Her mind was working into frenzy and the sound of her own heartbeat drummed in her head. She could do this. She had the chance. She was here. She worked the door open carefully for her body's width and shimmied inside with hands prying the doors closed.

Boots damp and slightly muddy, Kora's eyes timidly looked around the presented back kitchen. There was a large pot of something divine smelling simmering on the wood fire stove. Mildly distracted, she moved closer and peeked down at the red bubbling stew. Her mouth watered at the sight of it. It had been weeks since she had a cooked meal – hot, fresh and not a scrap. Her stomach gave a small whine as she turned her head away. If she had time, she might steal a bowl of it later.

She checked herself of muddy footprints before she headed to the only door leading out of the small cooking area. With every step, her mind screamed at her to leave. _You can't steal Kora! What if you get caught? What good are you then for your father?_

_I won't, _Kora replied to the voice. But truth be told, it terrified her. The sounds of her own wavering between the heightened sense of the iniquitous act and the force that drove her forward. If she did get caught, she would figure something out. Kora had faced worst situations than this before.

Opening the kitchen door cautiously, Kora discovered herself in a hallway. The soft tick of the hand from the grandfather clocked pealed softly in the background. And for a moment, she just stood there, allowing the reality of it all to finally sink in. The silence of the empty house beckoned her forward. The stillness was a puppeteer whose strings attached to her limbs, moving them accordingly. She moved before she could record the act with an ability of furtiveness that surprised her. Her fingers flew over the open drawers and the contents inside before sliding it closed again.

With each closure of a drawer, she shoved the screaming voice deeper into her mind. The one with all the logical and moral cries - the one that held the innocence of her that disturbed her more than it should. She locked it away into the darkness for this moment. Just for now. And promised to listen to it once this was over and she had what was rightfully hers.

She made the mistake twice to step on waking floorboards. The creaking wood sent bolts of alarm up her spine and her body to still. When the air remained undisturbed, she tracked down into the next room and the next, ransacking drawers with a growing anxiety.

She found herself in the study tucked away around the staircase. Kora pushed the door wider, ignorant to the closed bedroom door she passed earlier in the hallway that was now slightly ajar. Bookshelves doting medical and anatomy books covered every inch of the room. A small window allowed the stark light spill onto the rug. Kora tore her eyes away from the medical books and headed towards the chestnut desk.

Unaddressed letters of patrons and therapeutic notes were scattered across the top. A pen-like quill stood erected from a pot of black ink beside an open anatomy book. She recognized the written language to be French, but for what it said, she did not understand. Kora could read and write her own language well and snippets of English she could understand from text. But when it came in other forms, she did not dare to dwell.

She pushed a few letters aside with careful exertion before her attention slipped to last shelf of the bookcase next to the desk. Kora lowered herself into a squat and bent down to the row of books. She pulled one novel out, doted with a curious title in a language she didn't recognize. The cover was plain and uninteresting and she wondered briefly why she picked it up in the first place.

In her hands, her thumb brushed the tattering spine. Perhaps its was the antiquity of the book that caught her eye, or the eeriness of the untitled cover. As she was about to open it, a hidden item behind the space she pulled the book out of caught her eye.

Kora placed the unnamed book beside her and moved her hand to the very back of the bookshelf. Her fingers wrapped around a thin, hard item and she tugged on it. She slid a few more books out of the way until she had room to pull the hidden item out.

In her hands stood an item Kora thought she would never see again. An overwhelming urge to cry overtook her as her hand pressed flush against the cover. The small, tattered journal brought a sense of warmth and hope into her heart. She closed her eyes and smiled. _I know you're alive now._

As Kora stood up, the air around her electrified. The urgency to flee for her life screamed in her blood. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled up as ice shot down her spine. For a split second Kora was so overcome with her body's reaction that her legs were locked into place. Out of the corner of her eye her mind registered a hand coming down on her. Her body jolted into a panicked movement and she spun around to push the figure away.

A stunning pain bolted against the crook of her neck and Kora felt the lights go out.

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**-and cut!**

**I know that the whole 'blacking out' thing is so over used/cliche/typical/unoriginal. But think about it, if you had a stranger breaking into your house (or your doctor's house) wouldn't you want to knock them out too?**

**Thanks for the reviews everyone - it's really helping me keep motivated with writing this story! Please keep them up :)**


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